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Stevenson, Robert Louis, 1850-1894

"St. Ives, Being the Adventures of a French Prisoner in England"

We would pass through the
little crowd before the door with high-bred preoccupation,
inoffensively haughty, after the best English pattern; and
disappear within, followed by the envy and admiration of the
bystanders, a model master and servant, point-device in every part.
It was a heavy thought to me, as we drew up before the inn at
Kirkby-Lonsdale, that this scene was now to be enacted for the last
time. Alas! and had I known it, it was to go of with so inferior a
grace!
I had been injudiciously liberal to the post-boys of the chaise and
four. My own post-boy, he of the patched breeches, now stood
before me, his eyes glittering with greed, his hand advanced. It
was plain he anticipated something extraordinary by way of a
pourboire; and considering the marches and counter-marches by which
I had extended the stage, the military character of our affairs
with Mr. Bellamy, and the bad example I had set before him at the
archdeacon's, something exceptional was certainly to be done. But
these are always nice questions, to a foreigner above all: a shade
too little will suggest niggardliness, a shilling too much smells
of hush-money. Fresh from the scene at the archdeacon's, and
flushed by the idea that I was now nearly done with the
responsibilities of the claret-coloured chaise, I put into his
hands five guineas; and the amount served only to waken his
cupidity.


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